


Satchel Boy

by DivinityAvenue



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: F/M, aye this is from me tumblr, even though my brain screamed YALL NEED TO FUCK, it was my first fic for cm ok im emotionally attached, lil bit of a slow burner, reader is very observant and spency is like WOW, spencer is forever gonna be a lil softy to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29398158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DivinityAvenue/pseuds/DivinityAvenue
Summary: Interviewing a witness that profiles for a hobby leads Reid to an interesting interaction.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Reader
Kudos: 32





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I'm in the process of uploading all my tumblr fics and one shots to here as a back-up.  
> angelofthebau on tumblr  
> I ain't stealin content  
> I made itttttt

I savored the peace that 11am granted to the Coffee House. Given another couple of hours, the moody room would become alive with regulars and strangers alike - faces with stories and secrets. Right now, the only face was old Billy in the corner, a quieter man with squinting eyes that wandered around the coffee shop every few minutes when he took a break from the morning papers. Dyslexia, I’d guessed. A while ago, I’d brought his coffee to the table and noticed that his eyes moved at different speeds when he read and that, when he took his break from reading, his eyes would stare at something blank and avoid the posters with text plastered on the brick wall to regain his alignment. He drank black coffee and had a authoritative shadow of a manner on his face at all times. Probably an ex-cop.  
I guess Brutus counted as a face, too, even if he was slumped behind the counter. I laughed when I read his resume and wondered if he knew that his name meant ‘stupid’. He wasn’t stupid - he was completely unaware of everyone. To him, everyone was a face that just wanted a coffee or perhaps a tea. He didn’t care for stories or study those who walked through the wooden doors. He just wanted to make a paycheck. I couldn’t blame him, he was only nineteen.  
Billy’s face clouded over when the door opened, like a reminder of something.  
Two men strolled in - well, the one trailing behind was barely a man. Two strangers with a whole lot of stories by the looks of it. Shared stories. Bad stories. Good stories.  
“Hello…agents,” I greeted as they stepped up to the counter. Their expressions changed a little, the younger twitching his nose a little.  
“How did you know that?”  
“Wild guess,” I sighed. “But you,” I pointed to the dark-skinned man who stared me down. “You look like you’ve just stepped out of a brochure for FBI trainees,”  
A ghost of a smile flickered around his mouth, before settling back to his business expression.  
“Do you own this coffee house?”  
I nodded. “For two years now,”  
“Ma’am, could we talk to you alone?”  
I shrugged lightly and nodded towards Brutus, his expression nearly making me splutter with laughter. It was like seeing a child watch a movie they’re not supposed to be watching.

The agents settled down on the break room chairs in front of me, a table separating us. I studied them for a moment, watching where their eyes drifted to and what they took in.  
Profilers.  
“We’re looking for a man who’s been in this place within the last six months. Perhaps not regularly, but enough to be assumed local. He probably orders the same drink every time and stays for hours, typing on a laptop. He doesn’t have a set time for when he’ll arrive, so he most likely knows you and all of your staff,” The leading agent said, his hands moving with every word subtly. A sign of intelligence, declarative and thoughtful speech, but understated. He tries to blend into wherever he is and match with who he’s talking to, but with a persuasive kind of authority.  
“Agent…?”  
“Morgan,”  
“Well, Morgan, I hate to be that person, but that’s a lot of the men that come in here. What else do you have?”  
“Do you offer table service?”  
“Only I serve the tables sometimes, my staff prefer to stay behind the counter,”  
Morgan nodded and looked over at the younger one, who pulled out a wad of paper from a little satchel. I smiled. The satchel was sweet.  
“Read through some of this to see if you recognize it. We believe that this man wrote this at your coffee shop,” Morgan said, sliding over the document. It was stapled neatly in two corners, like a book. Whoever wrote this was organised and meticulous, but had a spark of creativity that he tried to hide.  
“I have to warn you, ma’am, it’s not great,”  
My eyes scanned the document, flicking page after page, taking in every detail. It was a story, though the writing too formal and simple to be pure creativity. One section seemed to become lost and emotion leaked through the words. He became more descriptive, more excited. A sexual release from seeing the end of a blade in a victim’s mouth and telling them that he’s not stupid. It seemed like a biography for an untraceable man, or one that thought he was. One hundred and five A4 pages of a plan. His own story.  
“I don’t recognize the story. Bittersweet,” I stated, carefully placing the paper back onto the table and lifting my head. Morgan was smirking a little, and the satchel boy staring directly in my eyes, perplexed.  
“You read it so fast, are you sure you don’t recognize it at all?” Morgan asked.  
“I don’t. But the formatting stands out. Most men in here rarely type a word document, most are emails or spreadsheets. The few men that do type a document stick to the default font, maybe make the sizing a little bigger and ignore the voice of their wives in their head saying they should get their eyes checked out by a doctor,”  
Morgan chuckled.  
“This guy kept the original font size. Probably a younger guy who hasn’t spent most of his life staring at a screen. He chose a different font. He used Lucida Sans - a simple font but he used the typewriter version. I used to use that font sometimes. A basic font, but with a vintage feeling. Facts of the past. As if he imagined that this story would live forever,”  
Agent Satchel’s mouth dropped slightly. Something just made sense, but only to him. Morgan nodded.  
“Thank you for your time, ma’am,” Morgan nodded and began to leave the room. Satchel stayed.  
“Can I just ask you,” He began, pausing to wet his lips, his brow furrowed. “How you knew we were agents?”  
I broke a small smile.  
“You just simply look like agents. Not obviously. You just do. Your friend Morgan, his expression is one of determination. His clothes are simple but practical. His job is something professional but active. He scoped out the layout of the cafe, looked for any CCTV. He’s looking for answers,”  
Satchel nodded.  
“And you…” I began. His eyes studied my eyes, my mouth. Waiting to hear me. “You’re an agent, but not in the way your partner is. Probably a Doctor. Your mind makes sense of things in ways that your colleagues can never quite understand. You know a lot about the world, but only factually. I’d guess a memory condition related to words. Your eyes darted towards the bookshelves in the cafe. Knowledge is power to you, although you don’t understand much of real life emotionally,”  
He was fixated on me.  
I reached one hand out to him, placing it on his chest.   
“Your life isn’t measured by statistics and knowledge, doctor. They won’t make you feel normal,” I whispered, before standing up and seeing him out. Morgan waited patiently by the counter, his left ear being torn off by Brutus’ constant need to be in on something.  
Brutus.  
I grabbed Satchel’s shoulder and stopped him from entering the cafe room.  
“What do you call the guy you’re looking for?” I mumbled.  
“An unsub. Why?” he whispered back, stopped in his tracks, barely moving his head to let me hear him.  
“Your unsub is talking to Morgan,”


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interviewing a witness that profiles for a hobby leads Reid to an interesting interaction.

“Enjoy, sir,”  
“Is the…is she…is she here? The owner, I mean. It’s just, I have a few questions. It’s not about the murders - I guess it is, but - is she here?”  
For an observant man, he really hadn’t noticed me leaning in the doorway to the break room. I watched as Atlas sighed, handing the agent a sugar-laden coffee.  
“I’m sorry, she doesn’t want to talk about…it…with any customers. Thank you for understanding and enjoy your coffee, we hope to see you again soon,” Atlas said cheerily, almost by the script I’d fed her before her shift. Word travelled fast about Brutus.  
I didn’t really want to talk to Satchel Boy. I just wanted to move on with my business and heal myself. I didn’t want to forget the entire scenario, but I didn’t want to relive it either.  
“It’s important, please,” the agent muttered, scrunching his nose a little whilst slowly taking the coffee from the counter.  
I guess I owed him answers.  
“It’s alright, Atlas,”  
He looked up and scanned the doorway, his brow furrowing lightly. Atlas gave me a little glance and I caught her eye for a second. She was sceptical, but her mischief shone through. I could see her smirk trying not to settle on her mouth.

“What do you need, Satchel?” I huffed as he followed me past the break room into my office, setting himself down precariously on the couch next to where I’d flopped down.  
“Is that what you call me? Satchel?” He said, almost to himself, with a tiny smile on his face.  
“You never told me your name,”  
“Spencer Reid,”  
I nodded, perching my elbow on the arm of the couch, rubbing my temple. He was silent for a few seconds and the air seemed to hit a little different.  
“Spencer, what do you want?” It came out a little too abrupt and it startled him. His eyes darted around the room, settling on a pile of books on my desk for a second, then darting around again. They finally settled onto mine. it seemed difficult. I had to look away.  
The air was really hitting different.  
“How do I feel normal?” He asked, strangled, referring to what I had told him about statistics and knowledge two days ago. It caught me off guard a little and I snapped my head up towards him. For a moment, I couldn’t see anything. I couldn’t see what he was thinking, what his plan was - something in my mind had been switched off and I was clueless. I was never clueless.  
“I don’t know,”  
“Then why did you say that to me?”  
“I don’t know,”  
“The mind is–”  
“Doctor, I don’t know,”  
His mouth seemed to zip itself shut and he slumped back a little, any confidence he had in finding answers had vanished. His nose twitched again. Although this time, I couldn’t understand why. Everything was still switched off.  
Spencer stood up, wiping his hands lightly on his shirt, and started for the door.  
I felt like I had to stand up.  
“I’m still figuring it out, too,” my words hit his back softly. He was still for a little while, before turning around to face me.  
The air gave a final punch to remind me of how different the room felt since we’d entered.   
“I thought you were so wise, the way you speak and look at things. It’s like you’ve seen everything before, like you’ve experienced everything before. I thought you’d know,” He said, his voice steady. I could smell the coffee on his breath. His foot lifted from the ground slightly, as if to take a step back, but he placed it back down. Why couldn’t I understand his behaviour?  
“Do you want me to call you when I know?”  
He shook his head.  
The switch turned back on in my mind. Trapped there, staring at each other, the pieces came together. We were both so lost. Lost in our own minds, the things we knew and what we were capable of, but lost of emotion and understanding life as everyone else knew it. Creating memories, love, the simple things - we didn’t understand it. We understood emotion and the way people enjoy their life normally by science - not by feeling.  
“I don’t know your name,” He muttered.  
I wanted to figure out the feeling.  
He had no time to react before my lips were on his. Soft, careful, sweet. Something I’d only read about.  
I broke away slowly.  
“You don’t have to,” I sighed, and pulled him into a delicate hug. He kissed my shoulder, almost like a second-nature reaction that he didn’t have to think about. Maybe he wasn’t so lost after all. Maybe he understood perfectly well, but didn’t care for wanting to experience normality.   
“Your coffee will be cold, Doctor Reid,” I said, as he moved out of my arms and out of my office.  
“Brutus means stupid,” He called, and I chuckled, sitting myself back down on the couch as I heard him leave the break room back into the cafe.

“You’re all done,”  
The design was perfect. Each line was etched perfectly, the colour blurred into real-life - a visible memory that will last forever. I broke a huge smile and thanked the tattoo artist as he pulled a wrap to protect the fresh ink  
“It’s a good placement. It’s a little odd, but it’s beautiful,” He remarked.  
I took one last glance at the tattoo before the wrap distorted it.  
“I’m guessing you’ve never been asked to tattoo a satchel on someone’s shoulder,” I laughed.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interviewing a witness that profiles for a hobby leads Reid to an interesting interaction.

My heart sank a little when the key turned in the door, locking the entrance to The Coffee House once last time. I loved the way I’d placed a stamp onto the building, the way I’d designed the cafe meant that we were as popular for the decor and atmosphere as we were for the coffee.  
I’d thought about relocating the business, but Brutus’ tarnish would always be there, on the brand, on myself. I had to say goodbye and start anew. I hadn’t made any plans but I’d abandoned thinking logically and just wanted to let my feet find another path.  
For a minute, I stayed put in the dark room, the blinds drawn down tight and the machinery turned off - the only lights were the dim orange bulbs screwed into the ceiling, next to holes where my candelabras once hung. The only furniture left was a small mahogany table and two chairs - the removal service were returning for those tomorrow whilst I jumped on a train to wherever. I took a seat and drew a deep breath, the smell of coffee still poignant in the room.  
For the first time since the ordeal, I allowed myself to cry. At first, it was a small trickle of tears that escalated into sobs of frustration and anger. The door began to rattle and my last sob came out choked as I looked up. I shouldn’t have to feel scared about opening a door, but hiring a serial killer did this.  
Brutus was dead, anyways.  
I shrugged away my jacket and wiped away my tears with it as I made my way to the door. I unlocked it and shivered at the brisk breeze whipping against my bare arms as I began to creek it open.  
“You’re crying,”  
The last person I expected to be stood on the street was right there, with his hand on my wrist that held the door ajar, his eyes glazed a little with worry and wonder. The image of him stood there, so sweet and concerned, was enough to let the tears come spiralling down again. The room darkened again as he pushed forward and shut the door behind him, crouching down to the sad puddle I’d become on the floor.  
“Reid, he ended my life without me even being one of his victims,” I spat, punching the hardwood floor of the cafe.  
He stayed silent, but sat himself down next to me, crossing his legs. I could feel his gaze burning.  
“Where do I go from here, Spencer?” I asked. I didn’t have the answer and, judging by his silence, neither did he.  
I didn’t need to know the answer. Just the closeness of his arm tentatively wrapping around my shoulder and his cheek lulling on the top of my head was enough for me to feel some kind of hope into creating a new life and forgetting everything.  
We stayed there for a few minutes, in the silence, sat by the door of the place he first trailed into six months ago with that satchel.  
I stood up, pulling him gently with me, and grabbed the hem of my t-shirt, pulling it up over my head.  
“Woah, wait, wait. Stop. What are you doing? I still don’t even know your name, Morgan won’t tell me,” He panicked, as I dropped the shirt on the floor and looked at the back of his head. He’d turned around in embarrassment as soon as he’d realised that I just had my bra on underneath.   
“Spencer,”  
“I don’t know what’s happening right now,”  
“Spencer, just turn around. Please,” I begged, and he reluctantly swung his head around, his eyes staring straight into mine, desperately trying not to look anywhere else. I lifted my hand and pointed to my shoulder where the healed ink proudly sat, in the exact same place he’d carelessly placed a kiss the last time I saw him. His took a few seconds to compose himself before letting his eyes drift down towards my shoulder. His face softened, even though his stupid nose scrunched up again, and his mouth slowly broke into a small smile at seeing the little brown satchel permanently embedded into my skin.  
“Spencer, you know I was supposed to be the last victim. You know that the last section of the story you gave me was different. The final kill, it was me. You know that too,” My voice shook a little.  
“I know,” He admitted, still staring at the tattoo.  
“It’s a reminder of what could have happened and why I’m still here,” My fingers traced around the ink, following each line of the design slowly. “…and what could be,”   
“What could be?” His eyes broke free of the trance, and he looked at me quizzically.  
“Why are you here, Spencer?” I challenged him.  
“I wanted to check if you were okay. Morgan told me you were closing,”  
“So you just hopped on a plane for four hours just to see if I was okay?”  
“Well, yeah. I did,” He mumbled, defeated, his shoulders bunching up. A sign of defence. He looked down at the floor.  
“Spencer, look at me. Not just my eyes, look at me, Spencer!”  
The wait for him to drag his gaze back up made my knees shake a little. The anticipation was killing me.  
Look up. Look up. Look up.  
A soft sigh emitted from his mouth and he raised his head, his eyes wandering up from my shoes, to my legs, to my hips, lingering around my bare waist and then onto my chest. They drifted towards my shoulders and my neck, studying me, taking everything in.  
Was I blushing?  
“Y/N Y/L/N,” I finally gave in, and he smiled, a broad smile that softened his face completely. So warm. I stepped back a few paces and he became curious, stepping forward to match them. I carried on and he drew closer, smirking. The next pace I took left me accidentally lying on my back on that one table left in the room, as he towered over me chuckling.  
The next thing he did took me by surprise. He placed his hands on the table, either side of my hips, and leaned forwards.  
“Where will you be moving to?” He asked. I could feel his breath tickling my cheeks.  
“How do you know I’m moving?”  
He shrugged, before leaning down even more. His nose touched mine and I quickly glanced at his lips, which only drew him closer. He kissed sweetly, but a little more urgent than last time, as if it was more important now. I lifted my hands from the table and tangled them in his hair, and his right arm came up next to my head, striking the table with a fist. I broke away for a second.  
“Quantico,”


End file.
